


what's one more, oh, wings of fire

by LouPF



Category: Onward (2020)
Genre: Barley has some issues he needs to work through iAN, Boys Kissing, Brother/Brother Incest, Brothers, Flying, Incest, Kissing, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wings, angst if you squint, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:15:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23250793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouPF/pseuds/LouPF
Summary: Barley has always longed for freedom. Ian tends to break the rules of reality when he messes around with magic. When he magics them both wings, Barley decides not to tell him that's supposed to be impossible - and together they learn to fly.
Relationships: Barley Lightfoot/Ian Lightfoot
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58





	what's one more, oh, wings of fire

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a convo on the Barlian discord server :)

Ian likes to magic them wings. Big, beautiful things - lithe but strong, black and red-spotted and perfect. They're featherless, made from magical particles and atoms conjured from Ian's mind. Barley doesn't tell him that they're not supposed to look like this - that they're not supposed to burst forth like some sort of childish miracle.

He doesn't tell him that wings should not be possible to create at all, magic or no.

(Ian always was a wonder.)

Barley curls his wings around his arms, and they stretch, and stretch, as long and far as he wants them to - and he marvels at it, the itch by his shoulderblades - the echoed feeling of _magic_ brushing against his skin. It's not much, but it's _there -_ and when he traces his fingers over the ruby-red markings on his wings, it tingles like electricity.

(like the magic he'd always wanted - like the magic he'd cried for in school, bullied and alone - like the magic he'll never have)

Ian tells him, a quiet winter evening when they sit in the backyard, back-against-back, that it's nearly too strong for him to touch. "It burns," he says, and his hand is atop of Barley's, their fingers tangled. "But I'll get used to it. I'm _getting_ used to it."

(and maybe it's not the magic he talks of, for his fingers tighten on his like it's Barley who burns - like it's him, and him, and _him -_ )

(but Barley doesn't dwell on it, just tips his head back to rest against the back of Ian's - glancing at the stars above them, struggling to shine through the pollution.)

It takes them a while to learn to fly. It's a struggle - Barley is covered in bruises and cuts from trying to learn the hard way. Ian reads books on bird anatomy - finds articles and YouTube guides online - talks to Corey in great detail and interviews several species with wings similar to theirs.

(Barley jumps from the roof again, again, again - eyes turned upward towards the skies, wings tingling, and he thinks, 'please, please, _please -'_ )

("Be more careful!" Ian chastises, hands gentle when he heals his wounds, and Barley smiles but makes no promises.)

For once, it's Ian who teaches him. It's Ian who adjusts his stances, shows him what he's learned, and though he keeps his wings tucked against his back, something tells Barley he's been practicing on his own.

His hands are solid against Barley's wings while he corrects him, never passing through the magical particles - and Barley closes his eyes, deciding not to tell him that shouldn't be possible, either.

(Of course Ian can just manipulate reality - of course, of course, of _course)_

(and it's electricity against electricity against Barley's skin, and he can't tell if it's because Ian is magic or because Ian is _Ian_.)

In the end, it's Barley who first is airborne. Ian is watching from the backyard, ready to heal him when he falls - worried, but patient.

Barley squeezes his eyes shut -

(he hates the pain he _hates_ it and _yet -_ )

\- and steps over the edge.

And he does not fall.

He _soars_.

His wings are flexing nearly on their own, broad and powerful strokes - and Barley gasps, barely daring to believe it - he looks down at Ian, blurry through Barley's welling tears.

Ian starts to laugh, loud and relieved and _raw_.

(Barley laughs, too, and rises, he _flies!_ )

(He had worried that Ian would not be able to bend reality _enough -_ )

It takes a while, but eventually, Ian joins him, too - and they fly together, at night, far above the slumbering town.

The city lights shine beneath them, and the stars shine above them, and Ian shines before him.

(and Barley can never thank him enough, never say it loud it enough, never say it gently enough, he can never put these emotions into words, this immense gratitude and love)

They glide through the air, together - spinning in patterns, laughing loudly, freely.

Barley closes his eyes. He is afloat on this feeling - the wind in his hair and on his face, his wings melting into him, the magic enveloping him. He is alive. He is yet _alive._

"Barley?"

He opens his eyes, and Ian is there, wings beating behind him, lazy and slow. "Yeah?"

"I love you."

And here, where they will not be disturbed, and reality is worn thin, Barley does not doubt him. "I love you, too."

"No, I mean - I _love_ you. Like, really - like - " Ian stumbles over his words, eyebrows knitting together in frustration. His teeth dig into his lower lip, and Barley reaches up to touch the soft skin - thumb brushing gently across.

Ian stops, wide-eyed, and stares.

"And I love you, too," Barley whispers, for the wind and the freedom gives him courage.

"You -?"

"I do," Barley says. "I do, I do, I _do._ " He cups Ian's cheek, pulling him closer - as close as their wings will let them. "You gave me wings, Ian - how can I not?"

Ian kisses him, and their wings tangle, magic against electricity against magic, atoms and particles and things Barley barely understand mixing and mingling - and he feels it all the way into his core, flickering and burning like a flame.

"I love you," Ian says, "I love you, I love you, I - "

"I know," says Barley, and kisses him, and kisses him, swallowing the words.

Later, that night, they lie in the same bed - their wings melted away into nothing - so close it's hard to tell where one begins and the other starts.

And Barley doesn't tell him that he's not supposed to feel this way, or that they're not supposed to be like this, or that they shouldn't, shouldn't, _shouldn't._

Ian has broken so many rules already.

What's one more?

*

(Later, Ian gets invited to the annual meeting of the Mages of the Land, and he brings Barley with. It's not until then he learns -)

("What do you _mean_ it's impossible to create wings!?")

(Barley smiles, a bit sheepish. "Well, technically magic doesn't... work like that.")

("But - but! But - ")

(Barley presses a kiss to his temple. "Don't worry about it, bro.")

(Ian definitely worries about it.)


End file.
